


To Catch a Falling Star

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Although they're elves, F/M, First Age Drama Meets Hobbit Sense, Fix-It, Gen, More fixed than canon, Silmarils, So all character death is technically temporary, Sort Of, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-05-14 17:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14774276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: A star falls from the sky, Belladonna Took finds a pretty mathom that will make a lovely souvenir, and Elrond gets some extremely unexpected guests.These are not unrelated events.





	1. A Pretty Little Mathom

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Middle Earth.

Belladonna Took had just had quite the satisfactory adventure. She had at last seen the sea, just as she wished to, and so perhaps tomorrow she should return home.

Just at the moment, however, she had nothing better to do than lie in the sand and look up at the stars. Her favorite was the Evening Star; she had always loved the stories attached to it.

For a moment, it almost looked as if it were getting larger, but she shook off this fancy with a laugh.

Except it quickly became increasingly obvious that it was not just an illusion. The star was getting larger - and, presumably, closer.

Belladonna pushed herself up onto her elbows and her eyes grew wide. It was quite close now, so close that she rolled to one side and put her arms up over her face, as if that would do anything in the face of whatever was happening.

Sand sprayed up into her face. Belladonna tentatively cracked her eyes open.

There was a pretty little piece of jewelry in the sand beside her. A white gem blazed in the center of it.

She had no idea what kind it might be. Hobbits weren’t much for such things, and the stories didn’t mention it. They only spoke of a brave mariner set in the stars to honor his courage. An elf had started to tell her more once, but then Master Elrond had approached, and he had shut his mouth rather guiltily. 

Still, it was a pretty sort of mathom, and if it really was a star, she probably shouldn’t just leave it lying around. What she should do it with it, she wasn’t quite sure; take it to Master Elrond, perhaps? He was at least more likely to know what to do about it than any hobbits of her acquaintance, and perhaps if he had no use for it she could keep it as a souvenir. 

She picked it up cautiously - it was a star, after all, and might well be hot - but it didn’t burn her at all. She slipped it into her pack and settled in to sleep for the night.

She did hope that brave mariner wasn’t too worried about what had happened to his mathom.

. . .

She hadn’t gone far the next morning when she ran into quite the most ragged elf she had ever seen. Perhaps he was on an adventure as well; she was all too familiar with what those could do to the wardrobe. She was hardly presentable herself.

“Good morning, Master Elf!” she cried cheerfully enough. None of Master Elrond’s people had ever been at all unfriendly, and she saw no reason why this elf should be any different.

“Good morning,” he returned. He tried to smile and failed rather badly. One hand clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Are you alright?” she asked. She frowned. He was entirely too thin, even for an elf. “Would you like to join me for second breakfast?”

He laughed. It was strained, but genuine. She suspected she had surprised him. She had managed it with Master Elrond’s people more than once. “I cannot dally. I seek news of what occurred last night.”

“Oh! You mean the falling star?”

The elf stilled. “Yes. I - Did you - ?” There was something terrible in his eyes, and his voice broke on the words.

“It’s alright,” she assured him. She knew well how much the elves loved their stars. “I found it. I thought perhaps to take it to Master Elrond.”

“Elrond,” the elf repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

“But you must know Elrond! If even a hobbit knows of him, I cannot imagine how an elf does not.”

“I knew him,” the elf agreed. The brokenness in his voice was no better. His eyes snapped back to hers. “But you cannot have reached him yet. Where is it?” His voice was desperate, mad, and for the first time, Belladonna felt a little bit afraid.

She drew back a step. “I am not sure I should tell you. Your look is very strange.”

He laughed. It was not the surprised laugh of earlier. It was far worse, and it ended in a sound like a sob. “Strange and worse than strange! My Oath compels me still, for all that I wish it would not, and I fear it shall drag me to one last fell deed, worse, perhaps, than any before. Already it torments me.” Pain rippled over his face, and he clenched his hand again. “I cannot restrain it long - No. Long we held it then. I shall hold it - Ai! I must hold it now, I must, but do not take it to Elrond, I beg you. Do not - “ Pain contorted the elf’s face, and he fell to his knees.

If she was going to run, now was the time to do it, but Belladonna could not bear to leave him like that. She did not quite understand what was going on, but it was plain this stranger has sworn some sort of Oath about the pretty mathom in her pack, and all the pain was wrapped up in that. 

The cure for his pain, then, seemed very simple, so she reached into her pack and held it out to him. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

One clawed hand jerked toward the gem. The other made an aborted movement to the hilt of his sword. “No. No, I will not be a thief again, I will not - “

“But I found it, so it’s mine, and I’m giving it to you,” Belladonna said firmly, and she pressed the chain into his hand. The gem nestled into his palm.

He flinched back, and then stared down at the gem in wonder. “It doesn’t burn,” he whispered.

“I was surprised too,” she admitted. “They say the stars are fire, so I expected it to be hotter.”

“It burned last time,” he said, still in a daze. “We stole them, and they burned us.”

Magic, then. It seemed absurdly obvious. “Well, this one was a gift.” She began rooting around in her pack. “I’ve some bread left. Shall we split that for second breakfast?”

He stared at her like she was just as much a wonder as that mathom of his. “You gave it up freely.”

“You seemed to want it more than I did,” she said with a shrug. She frowned as she considered the date. “And it might be my birthday in any case. It’s only right to give a present on my birthday.”

The elf laughed. He laughed so long that she was beginning to be concerned it had become hysterical, especially when tears started flowing freely down his cheeks. “It is done, it is done, it is finally done. I have done it, Father! I have fulfilled your oath at last!” A wild grin split his face. “Here, catch it.” He tossed the gem to her, and she caught it, startled. “There’s no compulsion to take it back. I could throw it away. I could give it away.” Wonder spread across his face. “I won’t have to go into the Everlasting Darkness.”

Belladonna’s mouth dropped open. “The what?”

The elf calmed himself slightly, though not by much. “My apologies. I suppose I owe you an explanation - I owe you everything, far, far more than an explanation, but I suppose that’s a start. I am Maglor Feanorian.”

Well, introductions were always a good place to start. “Belladonna Took, at your service.”

He blinked. 

His name started to tug at her a little, and she began to wonder if his name _was_ the explanation. “You’re in one of those elvish history songs, aren’t you? One of the sad ones.”

“Several,” he said, almost apologetically. 

“I never paid much attention to those,” she confessed. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“I shall endeavor to offer a better explanation then,” he says and frowned up at the sky. “On the road, perhaps. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to take this to Elrond and hope he has a better idea what to do with it. I do hope his father … “

“But you said it mustn’t go to him!”

“Not with my Oath unfulfilled,” he said gravely. “But now it can, and should, and must. He has the greatest right to it of any left, and it was his father who so shortly ago was carrying it through the sky.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. “How do you suppose it fell?”

Maglor’s look grew grim. “His father is a mighty warrior, who once slew a great dragon. I cannot imagine what beast has emerged from the void to best him. Perhaps Morgoth has broken loose once again and the end of days is at hand. Well can I believe that Eärendil would cast away the Silmaril rather than let our black foe once more atain it.”

“Oh,” she said again, more faintly. Then her innate sense reasserted itself, and she said, “Or perhaps he has merely tripped, and the silly thing fell off.”

“Silmaril,” Maglor corrected automatically. He appeared rather taken aback, but something that was almost a smile was pulling at his lips. “And perhaps you are right at that! I suppose we shall know one way or another soon enough. To Elrond, then! Will you travel with me?”

“I suppose I had better, since you still owe me a story,” she agreed, passing the glittering mathom back to him. “And to keep you from jumping to the worst possible conclusion. First we must eat, though, and then we can walk, and you can tell me all about that mathom of yours!”

“Very well,” he conceded, and he took the bread she offers. “I must confess, though, I am unfamiliar with that word. What, precisely, is a mathom? A jewel?”

“Or any other thing that’s pretty enough, but without much purpose,” she agreed. “The sort of thing you put on your mantle to attract dust and regift a hundred times before it’s regifted right back to you - are you quite alright?” 

“Quite alright,” Maglor coughed out, the second he was done choking on his piece of bread.


	2. A Beacon for the Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How, exactly, did the Silmaril fall in the first place?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally on Tumblr I had two explanations for how this happened, one short and fluffy and the other being this. Since this is the one the rest of the story is based off of, I have elected to include it and not the other one.

Earandil knew well what things lurked in the void between stars. He glimpsed them, sometimes, a half-sight of gnawing teeth and bladed, grasping hands. He heard them, too. Nothing so honest as a dragon’s roar. Just soft, hissing whispers amidst the hungry dark.

He kept his sword ready, but he knew all too well that it wasn’t the steel that kept them away. It was the Silmaril’s blazing, furious light that burned through the dark and sent them scuttling away.

Sometimes he imagined he could hear Feanor’s burning words whispering in furious counterpoint to the hungry murmurs around him.

He had considered bringing it up to someone, but most likely, it was only the silence and the darkness playing tricks on his mind, and if it wasn’t … If Feanor could somehow reach beyond Mandos to set all his stubborn will and great voice’s power against the creatures of the void … Well, Earandil was not at all sure that he wanted anyone to make Feanor _stop._ To face the dark alone was a fearsome thing.

It was quieter than usual tonight. He heard no whispers. No scuttling of too many legs. No moaning of stomachs that could never be filled.

When he saw the first cobweb strung up before him, he knew why.

He could not turn from his course. Not by much. Just enough to dive beneath it, so that he did not send it vibrating, just enough to pray he could pass unnoticed -

The Silmaril’s light bounced off a maze of web before him.

It could not be - It surely was not - 

Surely there were many creatures of the void that took on a spider’s shape. It did not have to be Her.

 _Her,_ Feanor’s voice hissed. _She wants the light. She wants to consume it._

Earandil set his jaw and prepared to do the hardest sailing he had ever done, prayers to the Valar that he dared not voice chanting in his head.

 _They will not come,_ Feanor’s voice said.

 _You’re not helping,_ he hissed, and it was the first time he had ever talked back. 

Alone in a maze of deathly grey web, unable to see even the light of the other stars, it was very hard not to.

Sweat poured off him as he worked in desperate silence, diving and climbing, steering the ship left and right - What he wouldn’t give for another pair of hands - 

_Left,_ Feanor ordered, and he immediately obeyed. A strand he had not noticed passed just beyond the ship.

_I can be your eyes at least, though my hands I cannot grant._

The webs grew thicker together, and he needed all the vision he could get, yet there was the exit, just ahead, a hole they could dive through -

And they were safe, in the light of the stars once more, and Earandil could not help but gasp with relief.

The boat dipped under a sudden weight.

Down!

Earandil ducked, and the clicking mandibles snapped just above his head.

She was there, on the boat. Too large for it to hold her in its entirety, but the back rested beneath her.

She was supposed to be gone, to have devoured herself long ago, but no. They should not be so fortunate.

Ungoliant was back.

The foul blackness that surrounded her warred against the light of the Silmaril. Instinctive, overpowering fear rose up in him, but Feanor suddenly felt very present on the boat, a blazing fire pulsing in the Silmaril.

 _My father fought it,_ Feanor growled. _He fought it when Morgoth himself was there to aid her. Shall you do less?_

Earandil drew his sword.

“With two hands, he promised, but with one hand he gave,” Ungoliant hissed. “But I see no Balrogs to help you now. You cannot stand against me, little morsel.”

If the Valar were going to show up, now would be an ideal time for it.

He lunged forward, his sword seeking her eyes. She reared up, shooting a rope of webbing at him. He rolled out of the way, jabbing at her stomach.

She laughed.

When he drew his sword back bent, he knew why.

He could not defeat her.

_She must not get the power of the Silmaril!_

He could not defeat her, yet he must not let her win.

Earandil charged forward again, with his dagger this time. She skittered forward to meet him.

He dove between her legs, and rolled, coming up on the other side of the boat. 

Then he grasped his only source of light, his last ally, his sole hope, and hurled it over the side of the ship and down onto Arda below.

The fire lingered, just for a moment. 

_Well fought,_ he thought he heard, the words perhaps a touch grudging, perhaps a touch admiring. 

He expected he would meet their owner soon enough to find out.

While the light lingered, while he still could, he let out a wordless battle cry and charged forward, his knife chopping at the nearest leg.

Then the fire was dragged away to follow the Silmaril. The paralyzing darkness closed around him.

Cold and dark and something was laughing, chittering, mandibles clacking together -

He swept out blindly, refusing to die without pouring every last bit of himself into the fight, no matter how great the terror that stuck to his throat and slowed his limbs - 

Blood, or something like it, sprayed into his face as his knife jarred against something. A scream, his, the creature’s, his face burning, burning -

A distant horn called. He ran towards it, praying it would lead him from the darkness, from the creature that had not yet paused in its frenetic feasting to notice the absence of a certain light.

And then there was light, just a bit. Silvery and coming from all directions at once. He was kneeling before a throne, he realized, and gasping for breaths he couldn’t quite manage to actually take.

“Earandil,” a deep voice intoned. “You stand condemned of no crime, yet the trauma of your slaying was great. Long you must rest to heal from your wounds - “

Earandil’s head jerked up. “Mandos,” he said flatly. “I was killed on an errand for the Valar by a monster that we had been encouraged to think was slain long ago, with aid given only by the possible ghost of a kinslayer. Now the last Silmaril has been thrown down to Middle Earth where my only living son still abides, and a creature of nightmares is after it. I am not spending any time in your halls. I am going after it.”

“That is not your choice.”

He took a long, deep breath. It was a shame Elwing was not here. She was of the line of Luthien. She might could have sung Mandos into a sweeter temper. Earandil’s own singing voice was more likely to send him into a headache induced temper, particularly when it was still rasping from his ordeal. 

“Fine,” he said shortly, rising to his feet. “I will wander your halls until you deem me ready. Are there any areas I am not permitted to go?”

“That is wisdom. Do not pass into the halls stained red,” Mandos said gravely. “There the kinslayers abide to await their doom.”

“Right.” He stalked off into the halls. The moment he was out of sight, he began scanning the hallways for any that looked red, the more crimson the better.

Feanor and his sons had to be around here somewhere. Maedhros, at the least, owed him something, and Feanor would have no more wish to watch Ungoliant consume the Silmaril than he did.

And if anyone had ideas on how to break out of these halls and had the gall to do it, it would be them.


	3. An Unexpected Gift

Elrond was used to odd travelers turning up on his doorstep. After having a reborn Glorfindel show up, he doubted any group could surprise him again. So while he had not been _expecting_ Belladonna Took to show up with someone who walked with the grace of an elf but kept themselves hidden in a ragged cloak, he was not at all startled by it.

He _was_ a bit disappointed, but he had far too much practice keeping his composure to show it. When it was told to him that someone in a grey cloak approached, he had dared to hope it was Mithrandir. The light of the evening star had gone dark, and he would dearly like the council of the Maia on the matter.

Secure from all evil, his foster-father had declared it once, but unless the Valar in their unknowable wisdom had seen fit to remove the Silmaril from the sky, it seemed it was not so.

Unless - Unless the reason all his quiet searches for his foster-father had been in vain because Maglor had been busy finding some way to climb into the heavens to lay claim - 

No. No, Maglor had been the first to insist that it was a blessing the Silmaril had been placed in the sky. He would not waste his worry on such baseless thoughts, particularly not when the same ones had been chasing round his head for the past week, and he was no closer to wisdom now than he was then. He had guests to greet and duties to perform.

“Welcome to Imladris,” he said, forcing himself to smile. It was not the hardest he had ever had to try, but it was the hardest it had been in recent years. “It is good to see you again, Mistress Belladonna. Who is your friend?”

Belladonna’s beaming smile made his own a bit more natural in answer. “Do you know, he has so many names I am not at all sure which one I ought to introduce him by, but he says he knows you anyway, so I don’t suppose it matters much. I call him Master Huinë, for he has been much given to fits of gloom the whole way we’ve been traveling together!”

Elrond could not help but laugh at this little speech. “Not all of us can be as cheerful as hobbits!”

“Well, and you have been cheerful enough at other times,” Belladonna admits to her companion. “I am just out of practice with your elven ways, I’m sure. But you have gone very quiet! Surely you will at least greet Master Elrond?”

Her companion’s hand tightened on her shoulder. Belladonna frowned at him for a moment before conceding with a sigh.

“We have found something that we thought you ought to take a look at, Master Elrond, and it might be best examined in private. And perhaps in private my suddenly shy friend can find his tongue!”

“Of course,” Elrond acceded gently. There was a suspicion building in the back of his mind, one he was afraid to embrace lest he be proven wrong, as he was sure to be in mere moments. Yet he could not help hoping . . . “This way.”

He led them to his study and closed the door behind them. When he turned to look at his guests, he meant to meet the elf’s eyes, but he was caught instead by what was in his hands.

Never before had he been so close to a Silmaril. It was beautiful. Breathtaking.

Elrond would rather like to throw it into the fire, little good as he knew it would do.

His eyes traveled upward then to a face darkened by the sun and yet lightened by the absence of a terrible Oath.

“Ada,” he breathed, and then, because he had to ask, because he could not keep his eyes turned from the truth right in front of him, “Oh, Ada, what have you done?”

Maglor flinched, his eyes pleading, but he said not a word.

It was Belladonna who cut through the dreadful silence. “He has done a great deal of things if his tales are to be believed, but of late I do not think he has done anything in particular other than bumping into me on the beach. I saw that pretty mathom fall from the sky, and I thought to take it to you until I ran into him the next day. He seemed to want it rather badly, so I made a present of it, and then he agreed you were the most likely to know what to do with it next.”

“You have little reason to trust my restraint,” Maglor finally said, his voice hoarse and strained, “but I did not seek to take it from your father, and it does not burn me now. It would if I had . . . If I had fallen again, but I have not, and I can give it freely now.” He held the Silmaril out, but Elrond cared little for the jewel. He was far more concerned with the scar that he could now see that lay beneath it.

He caught Maglor’s hand between his own and studied it with a healer’s practiced eye. “It burned once.” He frowned. “You did not allow this to heal properly.”

“The punishment was just,” Maglor said quietly. “I did not seek to cheat it.”

Elrond shook his head, his thoughts wild and scattered with disbelief. “That is not what you said when Elros broke his leg climbing the tree you had specifically told us not to climb.”

“That was entirely different,” Maglor protested, and for a moment, Elrond could almost imagine himself back in his childhood, debating some point with Maglor over lessons.

He took the Silmaril and sets it on the desk before embracing his wayward guardian fiercely. “I am sorry for doubting you.”

“No one could possibly blame you,” Maglor said, dismissing it instantly, as quick to forgive Elrond as he had always been. His arms settled more hesitantly on Elrond’s back, not quite having the strength they’d once had when he’d been sheltering two boys as the wargs howled in the night.

When Elrond finally let go, he turned to Belladonna. He feared he had been a bit rude in neglecting her, but she was watching the scene with a satisfied smile. “Sit, please! It seems you have quite a tale. Did I hear you correctly when you said you simply gave it to him?”

“Oh, yes,” Belladonna said, settling herself into one of the chairs. “He was really quite upset, you see. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“I remember,” Elrond said quietly. “I am merely surprised you were able to so easily give it up. Wars were fought over this, once.”

“Yes, he said that. I don’t really understand that at all. It is very pretty,” she added hastily. “Please do not think I disparage your father’s work! Only I suppose I am only a very simple hobbit, and one jewel is much like another to us except in color. And if this one is magic, as you say, then I am sure it is much more valuable than it looks.”

Elrond was not quite sure what he was feeling at this description of the Silmaril, but whatever it was must have shown on his face, for Belladonna’s expressions quickly fell into dismay.

“Oh, dear! I’ve put it quite wrong, haven’t I?”

“It was put well enough,” Maglor assured her. “If only more had possessed your attitude towards it! As it is, I am still quite indebted to you for it.”

“It was a gift,” Belladonna said, waving a hand dismissively. “If your own birthday is approaching, and you would like to give me something back, I would not say no to some mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms,” Maglor repeated.

Belladonna went a bit red. “Not that you’re obligated, of course, for as I said, it was a gift - “

Quite suddenly, the humor of the situation overwhelmed any other feelings, and a smile appeared without Elrond’s quite meaning it to. “As it happens, I have a number of excellent mushrooms in my kitchen at the moment, and I would be delighted to have them prepared for you on Maglor’s behalf, to begin to repay you for what you have done. In fact, I think we could all do with some dinner.”

“Quite right,” Belladonna approved.

“We can discuss what to do about our fallen star while we eat. And speaking of matters under discussion, if I am to repay the debt Maglor owes you, I believe that means he now owes me - “

“I already owed you,” Maglor interrupted.

“ - and I would ask that you repay the favor by not vanishing the moment I have my back turned.”

There was light and happiness in Maglor’s eyes like he had never seen before. “A strange chain of favors indeed! A Silmaril for mushrooms and mushrooms for the company of a kinslayer! I do not think this verse will quite fit with the rest of the Noldolante.”

“I have every faith in your ability to make it work,” Elrond said firmly. “If all else fails, you can make liberal use of poetic license. Certainly other singers have been; if they were to be believed, you were but an echo on the wind or else long drowned in the sea.”

“And yet much less poetically, here I sit,” Maglor said wryly.

“Less poetically, perhaps,” Belladonna said, “but here you shall get dinner. I don’t suppose echoes get to enjoy that much, and I am quite certain there would be none in the sea.”


	4. In the Halls of Mandos

Earendil didn’t consider himself to be a particularly rebellious person, current plot to defy the Valar notwithstanding. But as rebellious as he was sure tracking down Feanor and his sons in order to engineer a breakout would look if he were caught, it wasn’t defiance fueling him.

It was the far more familiar emotion of desperation.

He had first caught the taste of it as a child in Gondolin as the city fell, and he hadn’t lost it until the Valar had granted his petition to send aid to Beleriand.

He had thought that would be the end of it. Had hoped it would be the end of the copper tang of blood that lurked in his mouth no matter what he ate, the end of the tight anxiety in his chest that was as choking as Morgoth’s fumes, had thought it would be the end of sleepless nights spent sweating over nightmares that could all too easily be made real.

Then the War of Wrath had ended, and he had waited by the docks for his children to come on one of the ships pouring in.

He waited. 

And waited.

The ships slowed to a trickle, and at last one brought him news that he had waited, desperately, for.

He had only one son left now. A son he couldn’t claim to know, who likely had all but forgotten him, but whom he had asked after with every ship that came.

A son that was not likely to sit on the sidelines if an ancient evil began devouring its way across the countryside. A son with children of his own that were even less likely to do so.

He would not leave them to face Ungoliant alone. He would not.

So he ran along ever darker corridors with a light that shone more copper than silver and had walls painted with scenes awash in blood.

Smaller hallways branched off, and he could just see doors further down.

He could be running right past his quarry, but he didn’t think so. Feanor had been among of the first of the Eldar to have been slain. Surely he would be towards the end of the corridor?

The deeper he went, the more seldom the corridor branched, and the darker the scenes grew. Presumably, they were meant to induce guilt in those that saw them, but Earendil thought if he were the one forced to look at these for a few Ages of the world, he’d be far more likely to go mad than heal.

A glint of bright silver caught his eye in the first turn-off he’d seen in a while, and he glanced back at it before stumbling to a halt.

The scene showed Elwing at bay, desperately clutching the Silmaril. The two sons of Feanor surrounded her. Something darker and more terrible yet surrounded even them, something whose tendrils wrapped around their sword hands like a vise.

Without quite meaning to, he walked towards it. Elwing had told him what happened, of course, and had dreamt of it many times, but this … 

There were two boys crouched in the corner of the painting, eyes wide and terrified. He reached out, not quite daring to touch them.

It was the first time he had seen their faces in two Ages of the world.

“What news from Mandos?” a quiet voice behind him asked. “Have they pardoned my nephew at long last?”

Earendil spun, hand automatically going to a sword that wasn’t actually there.

An iron gate interrupted the bloodstained walls. Seven figures waited behind it, cast into deep shadow by the flickering light, yet lit within by a chained, desperate fire of their own.

The one who had spoken to him was sitting harmlessly by the bars.

His face matched one of the one’s in the mural.

“Maedhros.” 

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “ _I_ certainly have not been pardoned. Have you come to throw me into the Everlasting Darkness then? We had been wondering about that.”

“I’m not here from Mandos,” he said impatiently, forcing himself to look away from the Feanorian and to turn his eyes instead to examining the gate. “Is your father in there with you?”

“He is not. I believe they feared he would be a bad influence on us.”

His brothers appeared to be taking notice. Well, let them. There was no way he could let only one out, even if Maedhros would stand for it, which meant he would have to find some way to release them all.

“Do I know you?” Maedhros asked. “Your face is almost familiar to me and yet . . . “

“It ought to be,” Earendil said shortly. The lock he would not even dare try, but the hinges did not appear as well made as they ought. He might be able to free the gate in that manner. He knelt by the bottom one and began to work.

“Earendil?” a familiar voice called incredulously, and Earendil looked up to see Celebrimbor emerge from behind one of the other shades.

“Earendil?” Maedhros choked out.

Earendil ignored him in favor of his own incredulity. “Celebrimbor? You forswore your father longer before you died. What are you doing here?”

“And you say that _I_ don’t have any tact,” one of the shades muttered.

Celebrimbor shrugged helplessly. “Yes, but I was still under the Doom, you’ll remember. And I took up the name again.”

_“Earendil?”_ Maedhros repeated.

Earendil continued to ignore him. “You did? When? None of those who have returned spoke of that.”

“Implicitly when I started putting Grandfather’s star on everything, I suppose, and then rather more explicitly when I was shouting defiance at Sauron,” Celebrimbor admitted. “Which didn’t end well in life, and Mandos didn’t take it well in death.”

Earendil had felt a good deal more comfortable with the world before he had learned that the Valar were apparently capable of being petty.

“We’ve been trying everything we could think of to protest it since, but no luck,” one of the shades said. At some point, Earendil supposed he was going to have to learn their names. “And since you are apparently not a messenger from Mandos here to tell us that something finally worked, I’m curious as to why you are here. Come to yell at poor Maitimo?”

The shades started to float together, their fire gathering a bit ominously.

“We’d really rather you didn’t,” one of them said pleasantly.

A near identical shade continued. “It took us long enough to put him back together when he got here. We’d hate to see someone ruin all our hard work.”

He hadn’t realized how cool the Halls were until the air started to become uncomfortably warm.

“Enough,” Maedhros snapped. “If Earendil has come seeking justice, then that is his right.”

Earendil moved on to the second hinge. “Seeking weregild in the form of aid, specifically. The Silmaril has fallen to Middle Earth, and Ungoliant’s gone in search of it. I need your father to help me find it, and as much help as I can get to cross the sea and fight her before she can devour anything too valuable. Like my son. Or my grandchildren.” 

“Or the Silmaril,” one of the shades put in.

“Or that,” he agreed. They were taking it remarkably calmly, but then, they had all lived through a war with Morgoth, and he imagined it was even fresher to those who had died in it. Impossible fights were routine back then. He paused in his work. “If I let you out, will you swear to aid me?”

The shades looked at each other.

“No oaths,” Celebrimbor said instantly. 

“Fair,” Earendil conceded. “I would accept your word, given how fanatical you all proved about it last time.”

“There was a bit more to it than that,” one of them began indignantly, but he cut off when Maedhros held up a hand. He had two now, Earendil realized suddenly. Apparently minor things like emergency amputation didn’t matter in Mandos.

Maedhros’s fire had blazed extra bright at the mention of Elrond. Now he pushed himself to his feet. “Our father is close,” he said. “We can lead you to him. If anyone can break out of here given the slightest chance, it’ll be him. After that, you have our word that we’ll do all we can to fulfill this quest.”

“Hopefully without any kinslayings this time,” Celebrimbor put in.

“There’s always hope,” Earendil said absently. The second hinge came apart. He heaved the gate back. “Mandos isn’t going to be pleased with this.”

“Cheer up,” one of the twin shades said as he slipped past. “If we get caught, he might put you into a cell next to ours.”

It was not a cheering thought.

. . . 

The walls showed his sons.

He got the impression from the Maiar on their rare visits that Mandos wasn’t particularly pleased by this. The walls reflected your guilt back to you after all, and Mandos didn’t like the implication that the only thing Feanor felt guilty for was the pain suffered by his sons.

Mandos was wrong, of course. Feanor blamed himself for Alqualonde and deeply regretted it, although he was still not quite sure what he would do if sent back to try again. He blamed himself for his father’s death, and he would give much to be able to go back and save him. He even still blamed himself for his mother’s long ago death, even though there was absolutely nothing he could have done.

He felt guilt for many things, but there were only four walls, and the death of your child was a grief unlike any other. Knowing you’d had a hand in it, however unwittingly, however secondhand through the Oath, was a guilt unlike any other.

So the walls, lit only by Feanor’s burning spirit, showed his sons. Today it was Maedhros, whipped bloody by Gorthaur and calling out for his father. Ambarussa, lying in pools of each others’ blood. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir gasping out their last breaths in the caves. And, of course, Maglor, clutching his burning hand as he stared despairing at the sea.

Feanor had examined all of the pictures as soon as they formed, but he’d been in here for long Ages now. Mandos had no new torments to show him. He could not block these out, could not ever grow used to them, but he could lie on his back and look up at the mercifully blank ceiling, and from there he could cast out his mind to his Silmarils. 

One, of course, only ever showed him fire. One was little more useful although somewhat more changeful as fish swam by and sands shifted.

One, until recently, had shown him Earendil sailing the Void.

Now - just for an instant - it had shown him his son.

Then the angle had shifted, and all he could see was the sand and a strange little creature unlike any he’d ever seen before, a discovery that would be far more fascinating if it hadn’t been for the more important image of his son.

He tried to reach out, to brush his son’s mind as he had the mariner’s, but Maglor’s walls were - Not iron. Iron he could work with. They were a storm of grief that drowned out his voice.

If he couldn’t talk to Maglor, he couldn’t warn him. And if he couldn’t warn him -

The faint footsteps of the dead jarred him out of his thoughts. He turned his head to see Earendil moving swiftly towards his cell.

Feanor jumped to his feet. “Finally,” he hissed. “Tell me you can get me out of here.”

“So you _were_ talking to me through the Silmaril.”

“Of course I was. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to Middle Earth before Ungoliant manages to take out another of the House of Finwe.”

Earendil turned to the hinges. Feanor had long been quietly furious that the space between the bars was too narrow for him to reach through and do the same. 

“You can still sense where it is, then?”

“I can,” Feanor said tightly. “Right now, for instance, it is with a strange creature and my last living son.”

“The one that kidnapped _my_ son.”

A biting comment about just who had actually been around to raise the boy leaped up, but he kept it back at the last moment.

Earendil finished with the first hinge. “Do you have any ideas how to get us out of here once you’re out of the cell?”

“I do. Do you have any ideas on how to get us out of Aman? The Grinding Ice is no longer an option, and I doubt your boat is in any sort of usable condition.”

Earendil winced. “No. But I know someone who will loan me another.”

Feanor’s eyes sharpened. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” He eased the gate open. 

Feanor was out in a moment and running down the corridor. “Keep up,” he called back, even as Earendil cried “Wait!”

Feanor stumbled to a halt. Not because of Earendil’s cry, but because of what waited just out of sight.

“Ada?” Curufin was the first to speak. He sounded horribly uncertain, as he never had in life.

Feanor had not been sure what to anticipate. If they would blame him, as they should, if they would be angry, or if they would simply look at him with disillusioned eyes.

He had not expected to them look at him with guilt, as if they had been the ones to do something wrong.

Curufin’s expression was already falling.

Feanor pulled him into his arms.

There wasn’t enough time, not nearly enough, but he let his spirit blaze hotter into a protective, fierce warmth. He embraced each of them tightly for as long as he dared.

Only two hung back. 

Celebrimbor hung back awkwardly, as if unsure that Feanor would want to see him.

“Grandfather?”

It was a question. Presumably Curufin and him had hashed out their differences, and if that was the title Celebrimbor tried, then Feanor was happy with the outcome.

He embraced him too. “Well done,” he told him firmly.

“I should have shut the door in his face like you did his master’s,” Celebrimbor mumbled into his shirt.

“You did,” Feanor said. “Very firmly and with a nice strong army to back it, the moment you knew who it was. No one could have done more.” It was not what he would have done - he would have shut the door on “Annatar’s” face from the start - but that would have been because of his failings, not his virtues, and it wouldn’t help to mention it now.

The walls had shown him the fall of his grandson’s city. They had shown all that had happened afterwards.

Feanor was able to say with certainty, after that, that it was not actually possible to break the walls.

Maedhros was a different matter. 

“I didn’t protect them,” he said quietly. “I abandoned Maglor - “

“And I abandoned all of you,” Feanor said. “You were left alone to face a terrible enemy with a terrible Oath. I am very proud that you did as well as you did with it.” And he pulled Maedhros close too.

Earendil cleared his throat. “So how are we breaking out?”

Feanor pulled back and turned to face him with a fierce grin. “Simple. We start a riot and slip away when Mandos sends Maiar to take care of the confusion.”

Earendil nodded. “And how are we starting a riot?”

Celegorm laughed. Feanor’s grin grew.

“I’ve never found it to be all that hard.”


	5. An Awkward Alliance

Earendil was a little disturbed by how easily Feanor stirred up a riot.

It would be one thing if he did it by, say, finding wherever Fingolfin still waited in the Halls and punching him in the face. Earendil could easily imagine - well, if not a riot, at least a very large scale brawl resulting from that.

But no. Instead, he and his sons went from cell to cell of their followers, whispering instructions between the bars as they worked the hinges off with impressive efficiency. Earendil followed behind Feanor. He doubted Feanor’s followers would listen to him without one of their lords present, and he felt a vague need to keep an eye on Feanor.

When a large crowd had gathered around Feanor with more still pouring in, Feanor stood on a pile of of broken gates and raised his voice to a fierce cry.

“Long have we been forced to languish in these Halls! Long have the Valar held to their wrath against us! Yet in our absence, all has not been well. Ungoliant has risen again to feed on the last light of the Trees, and though once again defied, she follows it to Middle Earth, where some of our descendants still dwell to devour all in her path till her lust is fulfilled, or the Valar can be bothered to deal with her. Yet shall that be soon? They show no pity even for the one who died on their mission!”

He flung out an arm towards Earendil.

“And if they do act, what then? Shall they break the world once more? Or shall we act, and defy the dark once more?”

“Fight!” the crowd roared.

“I have plans to face Ungoliant, yet I cannot guarantee victory. Even in success, dark may yet be Mandos’s wrath. Long may we be forced to languish, even to the ending of the world.”

“We were doomed anyway,” someone cried.

“Fight!” the crowd roared once more.

“For light undimmed!” Feanor cried.

“For the light!” The crowd rushed forward like a racing fire. Feanor and his sons did not hang back; instead, they led the charge.

Eaerendil ran with them, expecting at any moment to be waylaid by some guard, but none came. Only when they emerged from the bloodstained halls did they see another soul, and those were but startled shades.

The crowd burst into the Hall of Judgement itself, and there were the Maiar, more than they could fight, surely, but the dead Noldor flung themselves at them as if to overwhelm them with sheer numbers -

Feanor ignored all foes and ran onward towards the door.

And that would be their undoing, Earendil realized with a sinking feeling. No living man could open those doors. They would be trapped -

The doors were cracked open.

Cold shock nearly froze him in place, but Maedhros grabbed his arm and dragged him onward. They ran into the golden light of Aman.

Touching the living world was liking walking into fire. He felt impossibly clumsy as flesh wrapped its way around him once more, but he forced himself to keep running.

No one followed them out. They were, Earendil realized belatedly, giving them time to get away.

“After all that happened, they’re still loyal?”

“Not all,” Maedhros said tightly. Earendil could well imagine what scene was playing in his head. “But those who were not loyal were not held so deep.”

“Also, they were bored,” one of them said. He looked incredibly like Feanor - Curufin, then. “If you lock a group of Noldor up with nothing to do and the same handful of people for company and naught but their sins to watch for a few millennia, it’s really not surprising that they’re up for a fight.”

“But loyal,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “Survivors came to me in Eregion, you know. Even after everything. Not one of them was willing to leave when others evacuated.”

Earendil glanced back once at the door. He could still hear shouts pouring through the crack.

The crack.

No Noldor, not even partial Noldor, had that kind of luck. The cold certainty of that nearly slowed him.

But Feanor fell back to run beside him, and he was distracted. “Which way?” Feanor demanded.

“Horses first,” Earendil said. “It’s the only way we have a chance of reaching there in time.”

“And then?”

“Then I get us a boat.”

“When you say get,” one of the twins asked. “Do you mean steal? Because - “

“That went went poorly last time,” the other concluded with a grimace.

“No theft,” he promised. “But let me do the asking.”

. . .

“Earendil!” Idril gasped. “They released you already?”

Earendil winced and sidestepped the question. “I can’t stop to explain things now, Mother. Can I have the boat?”

“The boat? Oh, you mean the one Tuor keeps tinkering on? I don’t know that it can sail the skies if you need a replacement for your old one.”

“Please,” he said, “I don’t have much time.”

Idril’s eyebrows drew together unhappily, but she said, “Of course, if you need it. I am sure that Tuor will not mind. Can you not at least wait for him to return - ?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’d explain, but - “ But he didn’t want to implicate them.

“You will at least explain it to me,” Elwing said firmly, emerging from behind his mother. Her eyes were red.

“The Valar will be angry,” he tried desperately. “I will be breaking their ban once more, I don’t have a choice, but you do.”

“I risked their wrath for you once, I will do it again,” she said firmly. “Where are we going?”

He caved. “Middle Earth. Our son is in danger.”

“Then I am certainly going.”

“As am I,” Idril said.

He shook his head. “There won’t be room.”

“For three people?” Idril said incredulously.

Earendil winced. “There are a few more than that.”

. . .

Elwing’s eyes swept over the impatiently waiting group. “Who … ?” Her eyes fixed on Maedhros. “You!”

Earendil had to grab her arm to keep her from leaping forward. “We need them!”

Maedhros hadn’t even flinched. He just looked resigned. It was Feanor who stepped protectively in front of him, and his brothers weren’t far behind.

This was going to be a very awkward boat ride.

. . .

Earendil didn’t usually feel this uncomfortable on being proven right. He tried to bury himself in the work of preparing the boat to ignore the frigid silence that had descended on the deck. The ritual prayers to Ulmo started to form, but he cut them off just as he invoked the Valar’s name. The last thing they wanted was the Valar’s attention.

“Say the prayers,” Feanor said from behind him. Earendil was far too used to hearing Feanor’s voice on voyages to flinch. “Without Ulmo granting us speed, we will never reach them in time, and it is not as if the Valar do not know where we are. The winds have already betrayed us to Manwe, and Mandos knew the instant we broke from his realm.”

“The doors,” Earendil said quietly.

“Not a coincidence, I shouldn’t think. In fact, I was counting on just such a thing.”

“They wanted us to escape?” Earendil asked incredulously.

“They don’t like to get involved directly,” Feanor said bitterly. “Too much like responsibility. Much better to provoke us into doing it ourselves and leaving a way forward that is just possible.”

“You don’t mean to suggest that your first flight - “

“I suggest nothing,” Feanor said sharply. “I shall pick no fight with the Valar that is not necessary. Not after I have seen the cost.” Earendil turned in time to see Feanor cast a pained look at his bickering sons, as if he could even now see their corpses. “We need no doom upon this voyage. Offer your prayers, oh, greatest sailor of Ulmo’s seas. He was ever inclined to an inkling of mercy.”

Paranoia, surely. Bitterness.

Mandos’s denial contrasted with a cracked open door.

Earendil lifted up his voice in prayer.

The boat lurched forward before shooting across the waves with a speed unmatched by any boat that had before crossed the great sea.


	6. Meet and Greet

For a small stretch of time, Elrond had been almost entirely happy. Maglor was found, all of his family still on this side of the sea was safe, and the long specter of the Oath was at last laid to rest. For once, this victory hadn’t even come at terrible cost and had instead been precipitated by a small hobbit perfectly happy to take her thanks in in mushrooms and an invitation to explore his library, even after being more fully informed of the full scope of her gift.

The shadow of what had cause the Silmaril to fall, however, lingered.

And, soon enough, other shadows began to grow as well. Reports were coming in of a darkness prowling along the beach near where the Silmaril had fallen. No more precise reports had come back to him.

Of course, not all the scouts had come back at all.

Elladan and Elrohir wanted to hunt it. Elrond wasn’t sure how long he could constrain them.

“It seems my guess of some great darkness was more accurate than Mistress Belladonna’s hopes of an unlucky accident,” Maglor said quietly from his seat beside Elrond’s desk. “I’m sorry.”

“Of all the griefs in Arda that someone might blame you for, I hardly think this is one of them.”

“No. But it does not bode well for your father.”

Elrond bit back his first response, which was to point out that it had worked out rather well for the only man he could remember calling father, and stuck to the main point, which had the benefit of also not being possible to misinterpret as a rebuke. “Earendil slew Ancalagon. I do not doubt his ability to look after himself.” He hesitated. “Unless - You do not think Morgoth has escaped.” It was less a statement than something very close to a plea. Even Sauron had not invoked such dread in him as the faceless enemy of his childhood, the one he had grown up believing it would be impossible to defeat.

“No,” Maglor assured him quickly, and Elrond might have thought his foster-father was merely placating him if Maglor had not followed it up with, “the description of the terror this shadow inspires sounds familiar.” His eyes grew distant. “I felt terror such as that in Formenos, long ago.”

Morgoth had been there, of course, but he had not been alone.

“Ungoliant.” The word seemed too calm, too out of place in the cheerful light of the noonday sun.

Maglor shrugged unhappily. “Long has she desired my father’s work.”

“You told us she had devoured herself,” Elrond said a bit accusingly.

Maglor raised his hands helplessly. “You were children! How was I supposed to end the story? ‘And she lurks somewhere in Arda still, spinning her shadows and devouring light?’ We had enough giant spiders to fight without conjuring up phantom ones to haunt your nightmares.”

Elrond thought back to his own slightly softened tales that he’d told his children and was forced to concede the point. “I suppose you had no cause to think the distinction would ever be relevant.”

“No. Nor that it would matter, if it ever was. There was no fighting her, Elrond. Except … “ He looked to where the Silmaril was tucked, for lack of a better place, in one of Elrond’s desk drawers. “That light will draw her, but it might also allow hope of fighting her. My grandfather was guarding the Silmarils, and he fought. None of the rest of us could.”

A knock interrupted any response Elrond might have made. “Come in,” he called.

Elladan stepped through the door. He looked a little wide eyed. “There are guests, Ada. A group of ten elves.”

Elrond rose. “Cirdan’s people?” he asked, dreading the answer. If the Havens had fallen … 

“No, Ada.” Elladan seemed uncharacteristically hesitant to speak. “I did not gather all their names, but the spokesman called himself Earendil.”

Elrond grabbed the back of his chair. 

“There was a woman with them,” Elladan continued, determined now that the first shock was over with. “She looked very much like your description of Grandmother.”

“My memory of Elwing is likely not a reliable source for a description,” Elrond managed.

“Mine, on the other hand, is painfully precise,” Maglor said quietly, also rising from his seat. “I would be happy to help determine the truth of the matter if you wish it.” A hesitant, wry smile tugged at his mouth. “I suppose my presence could serve as a dual test of truth. If she doesn’t leap for my throat, she probably isn’t who she claims.”

“Not Earendil?” Elladan asked, giving Elrond a moment to gather himself.

“Earendil never met me,” Maglor reminded him. “Thankfully, as I am no Ancalagon the Black.”

Elrond wasn’t sure who would have won if that hypothetical fight had ever taken place. He hoped he wasn’t about to find out.

If it was Earendil - If it was - 

“Let us go meet them then,” he said.

. . . 

He had been expecting … He wasn’t sure what. A trap, perhaps. Emissaries from the Valar, maybe, his parents among them as Glorfindel had been. If they were who they claimed to be, he expected … heroes, he supposed. Distant figures who were interested in the fate of the Silmaril and not quite sure what to do with their surviving son.

He was not expecting Maglor to go still beside him on the steps and to croak out, “Ada?”

Elrond’s stunned gaze swept over the gathering in front of them. He did not truly recognize most of them, but he recognized a bit of Maglor in most of them, and there, briefly overlooked due to his lack of scars, was Maedhros. 

Maglor’s equally stunned gaze caught on his now healed brother, and in an even more broken voice asked, “Maitimo?”

“I’m here,” Meadhros promised. “I’m so sorry, Maglor. I shouldn’t have left you alone.” His gaze flicked to Elrond, and his eyes promised further apologies to come, but Elrond mutely shook his head. Past deeds were done. He was back. That was enough.

“I don’t … “ For once, Maglor’s powerful voice could not seem to hold.

“Oh, my brave, beautiful son,” Feanor said, voice hoarse. He stepped forward and raised his arms. Maglor crashed into them a moment later and clung with all his strength. His brothers immediately piled in around him in a protective circle.

Elrond dragged his gaze away to the two people standing apart, one rather icily, and the other with a sort of bemused tolerance.

An elf might remember all they had ever seen, but he had been half-mortal and a child then. He had one memory of warm arms and cold light - or possibly the other way around - and another of choking terror and a beautiful woman flinging herself out into the sea below.

He had no memories of his father at all.

The woman’s face brought that choking terror back, and he felt it cling to his throat. The man’s face he didn’t recognize, except as he might recognize his own in warped glass.

He should welcome them to Imladris. He might, perhaps, should introduce himself, in case they had not yet recognized him.

Instead what he said was, “Maglor used to tell Elros and I that someday you would come back for us.”

Elwing bit her lip. Earendil said, a bit hopelessly, “I don’t suppose you thought it would take this long.”

“When we were six, we thought you would be there any day,” Elrond said a bit distantly, mind caught up in memory. “By the time we were eight, we had stopped expecting you to come at all.”

“We wanted to,” Elwing said fiercely. “As soon as we learned you lived, we wanted to.”

“But the Valar banned it,” Elrond said. “Until now.”

“Yes,” Earendil said in a voice that was not quite steady. “Except they haven’t ended the ban, we just weren’t willing for you to face Ungoliant alone.”

Elrond wasn’t sure what he felt, but he stepped forward and gave his mother a polite, tentative embrace, not unlike the courtesies exchanged with some of the notables at his wedding that he had been less familiar with.

She returned it with a fierce, desperate grip that had nothing cool or distant to it at all. Earendil pressed in close, and long years of raising three children meant it was instinct for his arm to come up to include him as well. HIs father’s embrace was no less fierce.

“We wanted to come,” Earendil repeated. “And when we learned what had happened, not even the Valar could stop us.”

Elrond nodded. “You have grandchildren now,” he told them, a little randomly, but it seemed important for them to know.

“Celebrian told us,” his mother said. “She wasn’t quite sure what to make of us at first, but I think she likes us now.”

“There wasn’t time to get a message, but we have news,” Earendil offered, and the words were tentative and hopeful, and a bit more stiffness faded from Elrond’s embrace.

He let go a moment later, and his parents followed suit after a slightly reluctant pause. He looked over at the crowd of Feanorians reunited at long last. He recognized Celebrimbor, and he had to blink away the memory of when he had last seen his cousin.

Maedhros slipped out of the tangle and inclined his head. “Elrond. I’m sorry.”

Elrond had never actually been in doubt about that. “Maglor said much the same.” He embraced him quickly but tightly. Maedhros’s return of it felt unidentifiably strange until he realized it was because there were two hands on his back instead of one. “It is very good to see you whole.”

When he stepped back, Elwing was glaring at Maedhros, and Earendil’s face was carefully blank. Maedhros looked helplessly between the three of them.

Ah. “Did you have a pleasant journey?” he asked with forced lightness.

Earendil’s blankness broke with a laugh. “The awkwardest I’ve ever been on, though the Feanorians said they’d had worse.” His eyes flicked to where Elladan was still standing on the stairs. Elrohir had joined him. “Are those … ?”

Elrond smiled. “Allow me to introduce you to two of your grandchildren.”


	7. The Family that Plans Together Survives Together

The Silmaril sat on the desk. Everyone gathered around said desk was looking at it with varying degrees of wonder and discomfort.

“The Oath is truly fulfilled then,” Maedhros said hoarsely. “When we first returned and did not feel it, I hoped … but even now I feel no desire to reach out and take it. It’s done.”

“Due largely to a hobbit, of all creatures,” Maglor said wryly, shaking his head.

“A hobbit?” Feanor asked with interest.

“I shall be very happy to introduce you later,” Elrond promised. “In the meantime, we have the question of what to do with it on our hands.”

“Anywhere it goes, it shall be a target, even across the sea,” Earendil said.

“As we have learned all too well,” Feanor agreed. “Which is why I do not propose we hide it. I made plans while we journeyed. I believe it should be possible to focus and magnify the light, as sunlight is through a lens, in order to make it even stronger. With that accomplished, we might more easily use it as a weapon against her.”

“How long do you think it would take to construct it?” Curufin asked with interest.

“A few days if you and Tyelpe will grant me your help, and Lord Elrond will allow us into his forges.”

“I would be happy to.” It would mean asking one of the smiths to temporarily vacate theirs, but under the circumstances, he thought they were unlikely to take offense. The long years had preserved Feanor’s legend but blunted much of the bitterness, particularly for those elves who were too young to remember that first Great War.

“And for other weapons?” Earendil asked. “My sword failed quickly against her.”

Curufin snorted. “That’s because it was made by an inferior smith.”

Maedhros looked pained. Elrond stepped in to smooth over the awkward moment. “If you also have to forge swords, preparation will take far longer.”

Maglor looked thoughtful. “Maybe not too long. Did you keep the sword we gave you?”

“I did. We have a few blades of Gondolin left as well. They might at least be worth inspecting to see if they meet your standards.”

“Gondolin?” Feanor asked curiously.

Everyone blinked at him.

“If it didn’t involve my children, my grandson, or my Silmarils, I don’t know about it,” Feanor reminded them impatiently.

“And Gondolin managed to fall without influence from any of them,” Earendil said. “It was the city I grew up in. My grandfather Turgon founded it.”

“Aredhel’s son produced some remarkable smithwork there,” Curufin offered. “His skills, at least, were never in question.”

“You must feel a great kinship with him,” Elwing said sweetly.

Elrond had kept the peace between visiting dwarves and survivors of Doriath, former kinslayers and the survivors of kinslayings, and factions of men engaged in a century long vicious blood feud. He could keep the peace between his own family.

Surely.

… 

There was a particular kind of awkwardness in interacting with the Ambarussa since, like Maglor and Maedhros, they had been involved in the sack of his first home, and, unlike the eldest two of Feanor’s sons, he had never gotten the chance to grow to know them beyond that. The memory had been too recent and painful for either of the two brothers to speak of them overmuch. 

Still, when the two of them lingered after another meeting to discuss their plans, he was willing enough to wait and hear what they might have to say.

Their eyes were watching the vanishing backs of Elladan and Elrohir.

“There’s a fire in their eyes,” Amrod observed. As similar as he and Amras were, Elrond had long mastered the trick of quickly telling twins apart.

“It must make them dangerous foes to the enemy.” Amras sounded approving.

“They wish to avenge their mother,” Elrond said quietly. Not for the first time, he wondered where, exactly, that put him, a question all the more underlined by his current guest list. He had loved his mother, he remembered - Still loved, present tense, even if he was only now getting to know her - but he had never felt the fire to avenge her that had sprung up so naturally in his own sons.

Of course, Maglor and Maedhros were rather different matters from a pack of orcs, and the circumstances were entirely different, but - 

He wished, briefly, that he could talk to Elros about it. Elros was the only one who could completely understand.

No matter how long that had been an impossilbility, he had never quite banished the habit of thinking first of Elros when he needed help with - Well. Many things.

“A commendable urge,” Amrod agreed, and Elrond was reminded that they had waged their war in part to avenge both their father and their grandfather.

Was he the only one that did not immediately think of vengeance as the appropriate response after a tragedy?

That was a ridiculous thought, of course. Celebrian herself had thought little of vengeance, and the hobbits would probably avoid it nearly unanimously. 

“Yet that urge can sometimes lead people to be a touch rash,” Amras said. “As we can attest.”

“Against orcs we would not doubt them, but perhaps in this instance … “ Amrod said leadingly.

“They are very young,” Amras said slightly apologetically.

They were not, actually, all that young anymore, but unlike everyone else being considered for the expedition, they had not seen the First Age. And regardless, “I have no intention of letting them join us,” Elrond assured them. “I intend to leave them in charge here.”

“Ah,” Amras said.

“You are quite set on being part of the party then?” Amrod said.

“I am,” Elrond said firmly. He had been arguing this point against four parental figures for the past few days, which was four more than he was used to having to deal with for some millennia now. He narrowed his eyes. “May I ask why it is a matter of such great importance to you?”

“Maedhros worries,” Amras said without a hint of apology. “You’re the only twin that hasn’t died on him, you realize, and you’re the only younger relative that hasn’t been horribly doomed yet.”

“Artanis,” Amrod pointed out fairly. “And Tyelpe outlasted him. And Maglor, sort of.”

Amras waved this off. “Yes, but then we all watched Tyelpe die in varying levels of horrifying detail, and Maglor being nearly entirely miserable for two Ages doesn’t actually count as ‘not doomed’ just because he was technically alive, and we both know Artanis doesn’t count. Maedhros wasn’t responsible for her.”

“Fair,” Amrod conceded. “Anyway, the point is, Maedhros worries and despite what he wants everyone to think, he’s still a little … “ He seemed to be searching for the right word.

“I’ve noticed,” Elrond said. Maedhros was not the only one who had been worried. Unfortunately, Maedhros was no more eager to accept help for it than he had been throughout Elrond’s childhood.

“Exactly,” Amras said. “And we all feel guilty for not somehow stopping him from getting to the point where he … did what he did.”

“Yes,” Elrond agreed heavily. “And I will be more than happy to offer him whatever aid I may, but I will not be remaining behind this time.”

“Ah,” Amras said again.

“Maglor thought you might say that,” Amrod admitted.

Elrond raised an eyebrow. “You discussed this with him?”

“Oh, yes,” Amras said cheerily. “Talking about you always cheers him up, and we’re all worried about him too.”

“At least we can tell them the youngest ones will be safe,” Amrod said.

“And we’ll keep an eye on you in the fight,” Amras said, apparently trying to be reassuring. “So will Maglor and Maedhros, of course, and I suspect Father will try.”

“He’ll have a lot to focus on,” Amrod admitted, “but you’re practically an honorary grandson, so he’ll try.”

“And Earendil and Elwing, assuming he can’t talk her into staying behind, I suppose,” Amras added as an afterthought.

Elrond decided to ignore the potentially offensive dismissiveness in the last statement and instead said with exasperation reigned in only by years of experience, “Despite what Maglor may have told you, I am no longer six. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“You haven’t gotten close to her,” Amrod said, abruptly serious. “Even the Valar weren’t able to go against her unprepared.”

“And we like you,” Amros said, lightening the mood. “You kept playing peacemaker, which meant Maedhros didn’t have to. It was good for him.”

“So try not to die horribly,” Amrod concluded. “He and Maglor will probably do something stupid if you do, and there are only so many continents left for our family squabbles to help sink.”


	8. For Light Undimmed

Elrond and Elwing both won their respective arguments for being allowed to come. Elladan and Elrohir did not. Other warriors, such as Glorfindel, had been considered, but ultimately they were forced to keep the grouping small. With the Silmaril’s light focused in tightly to make it hotter, it could provide protective light to a smaller group, and anyone outside the light would be worse than useless.

There had been a slightly awkward moment when they had to decide who would actually be bearing the Silmaril. Earendil won out, as the one with the most experience bearing it, and, though it was left unspoken, as someone they knew it wouldn’t burn.

“Well, I wish you all the luck in the world,” Belladonna said anxiously as they prepared to ride away. “I am sorry that my picking it up has caused so much trouble.”

“Do not be,” Elrond said firmly. “You did no harm in finding it and much good. This is not a fight of your making.”

Then they rode out in search of shadow and snares.

…

Cold, creeping terror was their first hint that they had found it.

The webs strung up between the trees followed soon after. They swallowed the light of all save the Silmaril, shining on Earendil’s brow. Even within the light, the horses bucked and shied until they turned them loose.

They went deeper into the forest. Ungoliant must have made her way there from the beaches, tracing Maglor and Belladonna’s path.

There was a skittering in the trees above them.

And then -

…

Celegorm was a hunter, and spiders were all too common prey. He knew the signs. He watched the way the webs were strung and kept his eyes scanning the trees instead of the ground. He gave the first warning cry and leaped forward, stabbing upward despite the old terror surging anew.

The blade sank in, but not deep enough, and he had to jerk it out too soon. She shot out webbing towards him, but he rolled away, reflexes not at all dulled by death -

Rolling took him out of the light.

He thought - He thought he heard his name -

… 

Maedhros hacked at the leg closest to him, desperate to get to his brother. He would not lose any of them this time, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t - 

The black blood that gushed out burned his hands nearly as badly as the Silmaril once had, and he did not care.

… 

Earendil gave a great shout and ran forward. The beast shied away from the concentrated light, but it wasn’t enough. He ripped it from his head and pressed it against her flesh. She cried out, a terrible, shrieking sound that rent his ears. The smell of burning flesh, foul and sick, rose up.

It was working, though, it was working, and Earendil clawed his way past the panic that was crowding his mind and making it hard to think. It was that shriek, if she would only stop shrieking -

It was hard to think, so he did not realize that, with the light pressed against her, very little shone through as light for the rest.

… 

“Pull it away!” Feanor shouted, dragging a trembling Celebrimbor into the weak beam of light. He darted around the spider’s thrashing legs, grabbing every shaking limb he could spy, determinedly pushing back the dark terror that was arising to drag others in. “Pull it away!” The words echoed in both sound and through the Silmaril.

Earendil pulled it away.

Not everyone charged forward once more when he did.

… 

Wounded, she fought all the harder. Celebrimbor fought grimly against her. His father fought beside him, face always turned away from Uncle Celegorm lay.

So his father did not see when the beast’s mandibles came at him from that side.

Celebrimbor shoved his father out of the way.

Pain ripped up his arm - No, where his arm used to be - 

The mandibles descended again, but Ada was there, Ada was in front of him, Ada would make everything all right . . .

…

Caranthir was dead at his feet, again, and for one hysterical moment Maglor wondered if he could use the old lament over again before the reality of the battle surged around him again. Elrond was alright, he was still alive, hacking through yet another leg, and Maedhros was bleeding but moving. 

The spider spewed more webbing, and Elwing was hit full in the middle. She collapsed under the force, bound in place with the sticky bonds. The monster gave a chittering, triumphant laugh. Elrond cried out, but he was too far away - 

No. No, no, not again, not this time, he would not fail Elrond again. He would not let Elwing go to her death for a pretty gem again. Not again.

One slice of his sword was enough to cut through the webbing that connected her with the beast, but the threads that bound her arms to her body were knife work, and his knife was not of the best make. An oversight, and a terrible one. 

He sawed through it frantically. “Earendil!” he shouted. Maybe the Silmaril would do something.

Elwing was too quiet. Not moving. Perhaps there was some poison on the . . . on the web . . .

… 

The Ambarussa moved as one, dropping onto the creature’s back from the trees to attack its head. Great blood gushed out from where they stabbed deeply, making the footing treacherous.

Amrod slipped. Amras grabbed for him.

Held. Held. Held.

Fell.

… 

The creature was slowing. Elrond had to believe it was slowing.

Feanor was shouting something in a language he couldn’t understand - Valarin, maybe? The earth was shaking with the power of the words, and the light from the Silmaril burned ever fiercer and brighter. Ungoliant shrieked again. 

Elrond added his own song, learned from Maglor, strengthened by the lingering blood of a Maia, bolstered by Celebrimbor’s ring. Earendil’s song was weaker, but no less fierce for it. Other voices, less well known, joined in the desperate chorus.

The Silmaril blazed into blinding light. Heat scorched his skin.

There was a shuddering thump, and one of the voices fell into choked off silence.

The light faded.

Elrond looked around.

Earendil was grimly pressing the Silmaril into the beast, watching it shrivel and burn.

Feanor was cradling Maedhros in his arms. 

“Shh, shh. You will be healed, all will be well.”

“The last?” Maedhros croaked. “Again?”

“No, no. Shh. I will not leave you alone this time. You will be well. You will be well.”

Elrond ran to their sides. Black blood coated much of Maedhros’s arms and chest. The skin around it was grey. Crumbling.

“Fix him,” Feanor half-ordered, half-begged.

His power felt drained. Frayed. He gathered up every last scrap he had left and started to sing, trying not to think of why Maglor did not join him.

“Sorry,” Maedhros panted. “Sorry, I’m sorry … “

“Shh, shh.” Feanor’s grip must have been painfully tight, if Maedhros could feel such a small thing next to all the others.

Elrond’s voice, hoarse and strained, broke.

The light in Maedhros’s eyes went dim.

Earendil stalked over. He was carrying Elwing’s body, wrapped carefully in his cloak so as not to touch the webbing. “We won,” he said. There was no triumph in his voice. He looked around at the dead bleakly. “I do not suppose Mandos will be merciful a second time.”

Feanor arose. There was a fire in his eyes that Elrond was suddenly very sure had been there when he had led his sons in swearing the Oath. 

“We need no mercy from the Valar,” he said quietly. His eyes were fixed on the Silmaril. “Master Elrond, I believe that according to your tale, my son gave the gem to you, as was his right. What must I do to convince you to part with it?”

Elrond’s mind was blank. He looked around at the destruction around them. “I want no part of it. You may do with it what you will.”

“Good,” Feanor said. “If you ever choose to sail west, and there is aught the House of Feanor can do for you and your house, it is yours for the asking.”

“West?” Elrond asked, thoughts slow from the shock of old griefs once again made new.

“You cannot come with us now,” Feanor said impatiently. “You have responsibilities. Children.” His voice broke on the last word. He took the gem from an unresisting Earendil. If it burned him, he made no sign. “After the burials, you and I must go to Mandos,” he told Earendil. “Your presence will do much for the proceedings.”

“Mandos? You have already agreed that we will have no pity from him.”

“We do not go to Mandos for pity.” Feanor’s grip tightened on the Silmaril. “We go to bargain.”


	9. Mandos, I Have Come to Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's happy ending time!

They burned the bodies.

They burned their dead, they burned the husk that had once contained Ungoliant, and then they burnt her webs for good measure.

“She is not truly dead,” Feanor said, “but she will not return quickly either.” He looked unsatisfied with this, but there was nothing else to be done.

Elrond turned to Earendil. His throat was tight. “There is a road not far from here that leads to the sea. I suppose we must part ways here.”

Earendil hesitated. “I can stay,” he said. “I don’t imagine the Valar will get any more or less furious if I linger a few decades.” His eyes searched Elrond’s face. “I will not abandon you,” he promised quietly. 

“You are needed across the sea,” Elrond reminded him. Again, he didn’t say. “I am not so selfish.”

“Feanor can - “

“They will listen better to you.” He struggled to smile. “I sense a change coming in the world. I do not think it will be long as they count things in the west before I sail. I would like to be able to see all of you when I come, not sail with you only to learn you have been condemned till the unmaking of the world in your absence.”

“If you’re sure,” Earendil said, the offer still hanging between them.

“I am sure,” Elrond said firmly, “Atar.”

It was the first time he could remember calling his father by that title to his face. Judging by Earendil’s wide eyes, the significance was not lost on him.

Ada still was, and would always be, Maglor, but Elrond had spent far too long with far too little family to mind a careful juggling of titles so that he could claim more now.

Earendil embraced him fiercely. “I will see you again. You will be foremost in your mother and my’s thoughts, even if we do have to wait until Arda Remade.”

Feanor made his way over. His eyes were still shining with that dangerous light. “If it comes to that, we’ll find another way to break out of Mandos.”

Elrond didn’t doubt him.

…

It was a slower voyage back and a grimmer one. Earendil was pretty sure that both of their minds were on their absent sons.

He didn’t know what Feanor was planning to say. He didn’t particularly care so long as it worked.

… 

When they finally arrived, there were Maiar waiting for them. “The Valar demand your presence.”

“Good,” Feanor growled. He leaped off the ship and stalked forward.

Earendil was close behind. The docks were not vacant this time, as they had been the last time he had come from Middle Earth. Wide eyed Teleri watched them go, eyes locked first and foremost on Feanor and on the glowing Silmaril in his hand.

Technically, Earendil supposed the Maiar were escorting them.

With the fey light Feanor was exuding and the heat Earendil felt rising from his own skin, he wasn’t sure it looked that way.

… 

For the second time, Earendil found himself in the Ring of Doom. The first time, he had knelt. This time, he stood legs apart, arms crossed, jaw clenched, ready for a fight, as futile as it was.

He did not kneel. To his surprise, Feanor did.

It being Feanor, it looked less like submission, and more like a challenge.

His burning eyes swept over the Valar. His right hand held the Silmaril aloft. “Once, long ago, you asked me for these. I refused you, for I had no desire to be slain by the breaking of treasures that would not have needed to be sacrificed had your vigilance been greater. Had I known then what I know now - “

“You would have surrendered them?” Manwe suggested.

“I would have suggested you make the Sun and the Moon, as I also would have known that my decision was pointless,” Feanor said. “And I would have done a great many other things, but none of those are the point now. It is too late to renew the trees, yet it would be appear that you still value you them, for you traded an army for one once.”

“We accepted the penitence of the Noldor,” Mandos corrected.

“Once someone holding a Silmaril approached you with it, yes.”

“We’re not giving you an army,” Aule said. Under any other circumstances, Earendil would have sworn there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

“We don’t want an army,” Earendil said.

“We want all those who participated in the escape pardoned and returned to life.”

“Considering their numbers, their skill in warcraft, and their fanatical loyalty to you, it would seem that you do, indeed, want an army,” Manwe said wryly.

“If you choose to think of it as such, all the better,” Feanor said. “You have a precedent for granting armies in exchange for Silmarils, as we have already established, and I know how important precedent is to you.”

“An army in exchange for a Silmaril and penitence,” Varda pointed out. “You do not seem penitent, Feanaro.”

“I regret the slaying of kin at Alqualonde. I regret the Oath. I regret that I failed my sons. I do not regret breaking out of the Halls of Mandos, particularly as I could not have done so without their lord’s help. I do not regret sailing east again, especially as we could not have travelled so fast without Ulmo’s help. I do not regret fighting Ungoliant because after what you forced me to watch of your last major military effort in Middle Earth, I do not think the people in it could survive more of your help, and yet your rampaging kin was once again posed to decimate it.”

The Valar looked at each other.

Finally, Mandos sighed. “Little pity I said you would find, and it was not pity for you that opened my doors but the knowledge that it was worth the risk if indeed the threat could be quickly contained. And although the doom I laid upon you constrained me from giving you direct aid in this matter, yet I am glad it succeeded and that you have made some effort towards redemption.”

“But how far does it go?” Manwe asked. “Deceived we have been before. If I told you that we intended to break the Silmaril rather than risk its light again, would you offer it to us still?”

“If you break the Silmaril, then truly I shall be trapped in Mandos’s halls until Arda be remade, yet I would accept it gladly if all the rest were pardoned and released,” Feanor said quietly.

“Even if those released include some that you did not intend?” Mandos inquired. “Not all who dwell in the halls of the kinslayers are loyal to you. Your eldest freed one in particular, a son of the half-brother who you resented so fiercely.”

“Fingon,” Feanor said in disbelief. Earendil couldn’t quite hear what he said next, but he was pretty sure it was, “Of course he did.” Louder he said, “Though it included my brother himself.”

Manwe turned to Earendil. “And you, mariner? What say of you of this?”

“I say that I have now fought Ungoliant twice, and that both my wife and I have died doing so, and that my son nearly did. My son,” Earendil added pointedly, “who has fought against Morgoth, and Sauron, and Ungoliant, and if any more of your family goes rogue, will presumably fight against them too. He had been hurt enough and was hurt more still when I had to leave him to return here. He deserves to meet his mother again when he chooses to sail, and since it pleases him to also see some among Feanor’s family, I say that he deserves to see them too. For my part, I’ll sail the star again if you want me to and give it up if you don’t, but if I’m sailing it, I’d prefer if you don’t lock Feanor up again and that you at least let his sons out. I imagine he’ll complain about it ceaselessly if you don’t, and the voyage is hard and dangerous enough without him shouting in my head the whole way.”

All eyes turned to Feanor.

“They are, after all, my Silmarils,” he said with a shrug that failed to be at all apologetic. “My spirit is bound up in them.”

Manwe sighed. Earendil wondered if they had actually managed to give one of the Valar a headache. “We are not your enemies,” he said tiredly. “Long have we wished to find some way to mend some of what went awry. Perhaps here is a chance to do so. All in favor of agreeing to the proposed plan?”

One by one, hands arose.

… 

A star had reappeared in the sky.

Belladonna Took happened across Elrond looking wistfully up at it.

“Do you think that’s him?” she asked hesitantly.

“I hope so, but I shall not know until I cross into the Undying Lands.” Elrond shook his head. “They never got to meet Arwen.”

“Maybe he can accidentally-on-purpose knock it over the side so that he can come visit again,” Belladonna suggested.

That startled a laugh out of him. “I doubt that would be looked kindly upon. It shall just have to wait until Arwen sails to meet them.” Even as he said it though, a shade of uncertain melancholy crossed his face.

“They’ll be there,” Belladonna said firmly, “I’m sure of it. And when you see them, I would greatly appreciate it if you would thank that Feanor fellow for the fine mushrooms he gave me before he left. I thanked him once already, but that was before I ate them, and they were far too delicious not to deserve another thanks.”

The melancholy disappeared and Elrond laughed again. “I most certainly will. I am sure he will be delighted to hear it.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I ought to be off to bed. I think it is time I called this adventure completed, and if I am heading home in the morning, then I shall need my rest.”

“Then you too are leaving me! I hope you shall return sometime.”

“I shall certainly try, although if Bungo works up his nerve to propose I may not have time. I shall never forget your hospitality, though, nor your generous gift of mushrooms!” And with another bright smile, she was hurrying off to bed.

Elrond watched her go, clinging to the cheer she had left in her wake.

… 

Earendil watched, somewhat stunned, as the Feanorian supporters continued to pour of the halls. Elwing watched with wide eyes beside him.

“Well, Tirion will certainly be shaken up,” he finally said.

“Yes, I imagine Finarfin won’t be entirely pleased,” Feanor admitted. “We probably should have released one of his children for the riot as a bribe.”

“Give Uncle more credit,” Maedhros protested. “I am sure he will be glad to see Fingon, at least.”

“I am glad to see all of you, actually,” a mild voice said from behind them. Earendil jumped and had to stop himself from going for his sword. “And as it’s old griefs and brotherly loyalty keeping my remaining children inside, a better bribe would have been to bring some news of my daughter from Middle Earth.”

“I have some, actually, if you are willing to hear it,” Maglor offered, turning cautiously as though expecting to be hit.

The High King’s face split into a smile. “Then I am even more glad to see you!” he said cheerfully. He eyed the long line of emerging Noldor. “This lot will be a load of paperwork.”

Feanor eyed his suspiciously. “You seem oddly happy about that.”

“Well, it won’t be _my_ paperwork will it, oh, oldest of Finwe’s sons?”

Feanor, it was widely known, had wanted the crown. Apparently, having actually possessed it had changed his mind somewhat, because he countered that with, “Yes, and I was succeeded by Maedhros.”

Maedrhos looked alarmed. “I abdicated in favor of Uncle Fingolfin.”

“Yes, but he’s not out yet,” Finarfin said. “So if Feanor is choosing to abdicate in favor of you, that makes it _your_ paperwork.”

“Uncle was succeeded by Fingon, not me,” Maedhros said desperately. 

Fingon started sputtering. “You can’t just rescue me from Mandos and then expect me to starting kinging immediately!” 

_Kinging,_ Maglor mouthed. 

Maedhros looked at him incredulously. 

“ . . . None of us expected you to pick up where you’d left off immediately after Thangorodrim,” Fingon said weakly. “We gave you time to recover.” 

“You gave me time to sleep off the drugs the healers gave me,” Maedhros said flatly. “It’s you or Maglor.” 

“I haven’t held a pen for a literal Age,” Maglor protested, backing away. “If you give it to me, I’ll just abdicate in favor of Celegorm, and no one wants that.” 

“Including me,” Celegorm said. “I spent the whole time you were regent terrified something was going to happen to you, and then I’d be responsible for that whole mess. I’m not doing that again. I’d give it to Caranthir.” 

“No,” several people said, including Caranthir. 

Curufin shook his head too. “If Father’s not taking the crown, I don’t imagine he’ll be spending much time in Tirion, and I plan to stick with him. If Tyelpe wants it … ?” 

Celebrimbor shook his head. “Once was enough.” 

The Ambarussa slowly realized all eyes were on them. “He’s older,” they both said immediately, pointing to the other. 

“So now we’re back to Fingon,” Maglor concluded. 

“Or,” Fingon tried hopefully, “or, we could start petitioning for my father to be returned from Mandos.” 

“I’ve been petitioning,” Finarfin said glumly. “Since the moment he died.” 

“But now that Uncle Feanor’s back, we’ve got a much stronger argument,” Fingon insisted. 

“True,” Finarfin said, brightening. 

“In the meantime, that still leaves the paperwork,” Earendil pointed out with the safety of someone who knew that whoever it fell to, it wouldn’t be him. 

“You could divide it up evenly,” Elwing suggested. 

“Can’t,” Finarfin said glumly. “A lot of it needs the king’s signature.” 

“Oh, that’s easy,” Caranthir said with a shrug. “We’ll just forge it. What?” he added defensively. “Like none of you ever forged a note from one of our uncles. It wasn’t like Father was ever going to go check that what was in it was right.” 

Most of his brothers shifted uncomfortably. So did Fingon. 

“We are not going to stoop to that,” Finarfin said firmly. He eyed the still growing line of Noldor. “Yet.” 

… 

(There is a very large crowd of family waiting for Elrond when his boat finally comes to the Undying Lands. Very large, very excited, and very eager to see him. 

There will be grief later in the evening when they learn that one of Elrond’s children would never sail, but right now, there is nothing but bright bubbling joy and a large press of people all eager to embrace him and the others who have come. 

Somewhere in the press, someone shoves something hard and heavy onto his head. Elrond reaches up and touches metal. 

“Fingolfin said he’d done his duty,” someone is explaining, “and Turgon’s rather gone off the idea too, not to mention Finrod, and Aegnor and Angrod are still in Mandos, and Gil-Galad’s been determinedly dodging everyone’s questions about clarifying his exact place in the line of succession, and Earendil’s busy, and then someone pointed out that you hadn’t gotten a turn yet - “ 

It is, Elrond realizes with dawning horror, a crown. 

If he did not love these people quite so much, he would be very tempted to make a break for the boat.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original plan for this story had everyone surviving Ungoliant. Then I stopped, realized how unrealistic that was, and adjusted accordingly.
> 
> The SECOND plan was just to have a nice, reasonable "out of Mandos" scene and a follow up with Elrond seeing everyone and getting hugs.
> 
> Then Finarfin showed up and wanted to talk about the kingship, and the temptation to indulge in one of my all time favorite tropes (everyone's fighting to make sure SOMEONE ELSE gets the crown) grew too strong to resist.


	10. To Catch a Falling Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crack epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was cross-posting stuff from Tumblr and came across this again. I was SURE I had already posted it here, but I can't find it anywhere. If I have already posted this under another title, please let me know. If I haven't, well, here it is.

Elrond did not make a habit of eavesdropping on his guests, but with elvish hearing, sometimes it was unavoidable.

Which was how he came to overhear Frodo saying to the newly arrived Sam, “Elected seven times as mayor! Well done, Sam!”

He continued on his way before he heard Sam’s response, but the words stuck with him. He was not overly familiar with the hobbit system of governance, but he was quite certain it would be different from the elvish way of doing things.

And after several decades of putting up with being the head of the elvish way of doing things, he would quite enjoy hearing about the hobbitish manner of dealing with such things. He would tell Erestor to arrange a meal with the hobbits soon. He could ask his questions then.

 

“They’re called elections,” Elrond told his assembled family members. “I thought it might solve our continued issues with the crown. Master Samwise and Master Frodo have kindly agreed to assist us in this course of action.” He explained the system in more depth before concluding with, “Although the usual term for hobbits is seven years, it seemed to me that it might be wise for us to extend it somewhat. A quarter century seems sufficient to me, although I am open for debate on that aspect.”

Curufin opened his mouth to speak.

“Anyone who has a comment on me abdicating in favor of a more democratic process will be given the crown and left to sort things out for themselves.”

Curufin shut his mouth.

 

There was no rule saying the House of Finwe couldn’t participate in the election process, but it was obvious from the start that none of them actually wished to run for the position, and it became obvious quickly that if they expressed their views on individual candidates that the election could all too easily turn into a poll of who currently had the most followers in Aman. The Noldor were used to following the House of Finwe’s lead, and after millennia of fanatical loyalty, they were slow to change now.

The hobbits were organizing things well enough. The House of Finwe mostly dd their best to remain quiet and out of the way for once, which for most of them meant leaving the city. Still, even out of Tirion, they would occasionally come across someone passionately making an argument on the street corner or earnestly passing out pamphlets.

Or, on some occasions, descending into physical brawls.

Let it never be said that the Noldor did not throw themselves passionately into argument.

 

They returned to Tirion to help with the results. Ballots were being tallied in every settlement of Noldor in Aman, but all of those smaller results would be sent here.

Fingolfin found he was the first to arrive. “Who’s winning at the moment?” he asked the hobbits, who were busy tallying numbers in between mountains of correspondence.

“Master Elrond, I believe,” Frodo said absently. “Although Prince Arafinwe’s doing very well, he might pull out ahead … “

“What.”

Frodo looked up and misintrepreted his white faced shock. “You’re doing quite well too,” he assured him. “And I don’t think we’ve tallied your main areas of support yet - No, see, Sam’s just getting ready to open one of those now - You’ve still got a definite chance.”

“I wasn’t even in the running!”

“Oh, well, not many people wanted to run, begging your pardon,” Sam said apologetically. “There were a few young folks, and their names are right here on the ballot, see? But most folks don’t know them well, so most everybody used the write-in option.”

Sure enough, on the sample ballot Sam was showing him, there was a long space to write in a name. On this one, someone had written Finwe.

“We’ve gotten quite a few of those,” Frodo admitted when he saw what had caught his eye. “I’m not quite sure how that would work, but some of the people arguing for it these past months think electing him might get the Valar to change their ruling on how the remarriage was to be handled, and we didn’t specify that the candidates couldn’t be in Mandos, so we have to count them.”

“Never had to worry about that in the Shire,” Sam grumbled. 

“They’re voting on us.” Fingolfin was having a hard time wrapping his head around that.

“Well, they already know what kind of job you’ll do, see?” Sam reasoned. “People like what’s familiar, whether they’re hobbits or elves. That’s how I got elected seven times.”

“I think that’s why Prince Arafinwe’s doing so well,” Frodo said. “He did it for such a very long time. And then Master Elrond was doing it more recently, and doing a very good job of it, and he’s got to ties to everyone, so he’s a good neutral choice that appeals to lots of the different sides.”

Elrond was going to hate this.

The door opened again. Fingon made his way cheerily inside. “Maedhros and his brothers were right behind me, so Uncle Feanor and Aunt Nerdanel can’t be far behind,” he said with an easy smile that Fingolfin knew all too well wouldn’t last. “How’s the vote?”

“You’re about neck and neck with Finrod at the moment, although I’m afraid you’re both behind some of the others - “

Fingon’s smile dropped immediately. “I’m what?”

“Oh, look, here’s a large batch for Gil-Galad!”

“Did anyone vote for the actual candidates?” Fingolfin asked somewhat plaintively.

“Oh, probably,” Frodo told him. “There’s still loads more to go. I don’t think they could catch up to everyone else’s lead at this point, though.”

Fingolfin eyed the stacks of ballots still on the desk and wondered if it would be very wrong of him to fling them all into the fire and demand a revote. One where he stayed behind to stir up his opposition this time.

Compared to some of the other things this family had done, surely it could be excusable …


	11. Bonus Chapter: Feanor and Belladonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A missing moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by teaearlgrayhot who wanted Feanor and Belladonna and "being the designated sane one."
> 
> I'll leave you to decide which one that is.

Belladonna looked up from her book guiltily as the footsteps approached, certain it was the librarian coming to scold her for sneaking in a bag of scones to snack on in the presence of his ancient books.

It wasn’t the librarian, though, it was Elrond, and one of those new elves that had arrived, Feanor. Her guilty blush deepened considerably. Elrond was a good deal less likely to scold her than the stern librarian, but she hated the idea that he might think she was mistreating the books he’d kindly allowed her to borrow. And Feanor … well, she’d been quietly dreading the moment that someone would tell him that she’d called that pretty gem he’d made a silly thing and a mathom when she hadn’t really meant any disparagement at all. Tansy Proudfoot hadn’t spoken to her for two years after she’d accidentally insulted the other woman’s pies; it would be terrible if Feanor did the same for she would have long returned home in two years, and it would be a great shame to never make up.

But Elrond just smiled at her before properly introducing her to his companion, and did not seem at all to mind her scone eating, and Feanor looked as if he’d rather like a scone himself, so that was alright.

Elrond quietly vanished soon after the introductions, and she rather wished he hadn’t. She was greatly interested in talking to Feanor, but she wasn’t quite sure how to begin, so she fell back on the basic courtesies. “Would you like to sit and have a scone?” she offered. “They’re quite good, even better than the Brandybucks make them, though don’t tell them I said that.”

Feanor did indeed sit and laid something wrapped in cloth on the table as he did so before reaching for a scone. “Brandybucks?” he asked, eyes alive with curiosity. 

“A hobbit family that lives by the river,” Belladonna explained. “They’re very well off and very numerous, but not they’re not quite respectable, I’m afraid - though, of course, all of that save the bit about the river could also be said of the Tooks!”

“And why should your House not be respectable?” Feanor demanded. “Certainly in all that I have seen and heard of you, your dealings have been more than honorable and exceedingly generous.”

Belladonna’s blush returned a bit at the praise. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid the fact that I’m here at all isn’t quite the done thing. We like to keep to ourselves, hobbits do.”

“Perhaps why none of my sons reported sight of you in the First Age,” Feanor mused. “Or did your people come later?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she confessed. “I can quote my family tree back to you for ten generations, but we don’t keep histories as well as you elves do.”

Feanor’s brow furrowed. “Then they will not record your part in this tale in song that you may be honored and remembered?”

“Oh!” She was a little startled. “Well, I didn’t do so very much, really. Anyone would have picked it up when it fell, and there’s few that could have denied it to poor Maglor, it was so obvious he needed it.”

“You are quite right in saying that anyone would have picked it up,” Feanor said quietly, “but unless the world has changed greatly in my absence, quite wrong about what they would have done with it then. My father was slaughtered for that Silmaril and its sisters, my nephew Finrod slain in pursuit of it, Thingol slain for it by the dwarves, and the dwarves slaughtered in their turn, the whole kingdom of Doriath sacked for it, Sirion burned for it, Elwing driven to what she believed suicide for it, and, at the last, the Valar relented for the sake of it. That you would give it up without coercion, without even proper plea for it, is remarkable.”

“Maglor told me some of that,” she said with a frown. “It still seems so strange! Not that it’s not lovely,” she hastened to add. “It truly is, probably the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, but I suppose whatever’s in it that’s worth dying for is quite above a hobbit’s head. Or mine, at least. Finders, keepers is all very well when there’s no one else with a claim to the thing, but once you find out who it ought to go to, you’d be a Sackville-Baggins to hang onto it anyway. So, no, I don’t expect I’ll be remembered for long just for returning some misplaced property, though Bungo might like the story when I return home, and certainly if I ever have children, I shall have to tell them about the time I met the elves.”

Feanor was looking at her with a very strange expression. 

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I’ve gotten it all wrong somehow, haven’t I?”

“Not wrong,” Feanor said in a very odd tone. “Merely different. But I assure you, Belladonna Took, you will not be quickly forgotten. My line, at least, shall sing of you till Arda Remade. And because I have been told that hobbits value such things differently than we do, I also thought to bring to you a gift, though I am sorry that I could not craft it with my own hands.” He pushed the little bundle over to her.

Belladonna opened it curiously, keeping her head down to hide the blush that had yet again returned. She looked up again quickly, though, with a gasp of delight. “Mushrooms! And such fine ones! Wherever did you find this variety all the way out here?” It took all her restraint not to devour them immediately. They would be much finer cooked, and she mustn’t waste them. “You didn’t have to, you know,” she said with some reluctance, in case he felt inclined to take them back. “Master Elrond already gave me some very fine ones in thanks for the whole incident.”

Feanor smiled for the first time. It was a beautiful smile, and she wished he would do it more often. “He mentioned that when I asked what I could do for you,” he said. “But whether or not you will believe it, my House owes you far more than mushrooms, and I hardly resent giving you a second batch.”

Two large servings of mushrooms, and all for one pretty rock!

Belladonna was quite certain she had gotten the better end of this deal.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my Tumblr and all but the last chapter is already written. I'll try to crosspost a chapter a day.


End file.
